


Þrjár

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3994849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three of them clamber into bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Þrjár

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1cobaltDream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1cobaltDream/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for 1cobaltDream’s “Spirk with Trans Spock” and “McSpirk Warmth” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s dark out by the time they finally reach Spock’s room, or as dark as Vulcan gets with T’Rukh on the horizon, anyway. Leonard doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. A part of him wants to get off this round desert as soon as he can, but the rest of him is enjoying the subtle green tint that familiar surroundings seem to bring to Spock’s cheeks. When Amanda offered to show them holo-recordings of Spock’s childhood, it looked like he he’d slip right through the proverbial floorboards. At least until Sarek stepped in, spoiling all Leonard’s fun but still giving Jim a laugh. 

Jim’s still laughing now, eternally youthful. While Leonard loads their bags onto the table, Jim’s entwining his fingers with Spock and tugging his first officer to the bed. At least he knows better than to try and catch Leonard at this hour. 

“I’ve always wanted to have you in your childhood bed,” Jim purrs, while the bedsprings creak, old but unchanged since Spock lived here. Leonard rolls his eyes at the cheesy line, already knowing Spock won’t understand. 

Indeed, Spock asks, a note of puzzlement to his stoic voice, “Why?”

“Because he’s sick,” Leonard answers. He puts the right spin on the last word to keep Spock from thinking he’s diagnosing Jim as ill. Spock’s getting better at understanding connotations. 

He’s no better at resisting Jim. As Leonard turns around to face them, Jim snorts, “Like you didn’t have fun making me scream in my old farmhouse.”

Leonard had a _lot_ of fun doing that. But he was younger then, and besides, “I didn’t brag about it.” He kicks off his boot while he talks, Spock already fishing a silken robe out of his old drawers and Jim pulling his gold tunic over his head. Leonard used to sleep in pajamas too, until he realized that only enticed Jim more. 

Now Jim scoffs, “I wasn’t bragging.” He starts to fiddle out of his pants. He tosses it all aside—they’ll clean up in the morning, before they meet Spock’s parents for breakfast and Leonard can ask whatever happened to that old ‘teddy bear’ of Spock’s. Straightening the robe out around himself, Spock settles back onto the bed, and is immediately a magnet for Jim’s fingers. 

Leonard tosses the sheets back from his own side. Down to his boxers like his captain, he slips below the heavy duvet, while Jim runs his index and middle finger up Spock’s throat and jaw: Vulcan seduction. In the morning, perhaps, Leonard will indulge, but for the moment he grumbles, “Haven’t you two had enough?” He doesn’t mind them having _more_ , not really, but keeping them on their verbal toes is how he stays in the game. Their dynamic wouldn’t be the same if they didn’t tease each other; it didn’t change from associates to lovers any more than it did from colleagues to friends. 

He expects them to go on anyway, roll around together and occasionally stroke his back or moan his name, always trying to suck him in. But instead Spock says, “It would be rude to rouse my parents with such noises.”

“Aren’t your walls soundproof?” Jim asks, not at all dissuaded. Leonard watches him slowly trace the v-shaped neckline of Spock’s nightgown, before drawing back up to thumb Spock’s chin and stroke his cheek. Only medical training and deep familiarity lets Leonard see the subtle shift in Spock’s eyes—the dilation of his pupils and slight lowering of lashes. Spock indulges long enough to take hold of Jim’s wrist and bring it to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss against Jim’s pulse. Knowing it’ll all be one tempting downward spiral from there, Leonard rolls onto his side, facing away from them. The wide windows let out onto the dry landscape, the garden below washed in the pseudo-moonlight of Vulcan’s sister planet. It’s a beautiful view, but considerably less so than the one behind him. 

“Vulcan children have no need of such a thing,” Spock’s cool voice goes on. “Whatever flaws linger before logic’s onset, we still respect our parents.” Leonard already knows that won’t convince Jim. Leonard knows Spock doesn’t want it to. Spock could just say he doesn’t want to fool around tonight, and that would end it, but instead they play their cat-and-mouse game—another reference Spock still has yet to understand—and Jim’s always up for the hunt. 

Leonard’s up for sleep and lets his eyes drift away from the window, over to the creamy, neutral-coloured walls and the intricate wood carving of the bedpost. It twists back along the headboard, curved around the corner of the mattress. 

There’re markings chiseled inside that groove, the tail end just barely visible. Chips are to be expected out of childhood furniture, but the fact that it’s _Spock’s_ makes Leonard curious enough to peek. While Jim and Spock continue to bait one another behind him, he pushes down the corner of the mattress to peer at the odd engravings—writing in the Vulcan language. It takes Leonard a minute to even recognize them; Vulcan script is about as different as any alphabet can be. For all his Starfleet training, he wouldn’t have a hope of deciphering it, though Uhura would probably have a translation in the time it would take him to glance at it. 

Fortunately, Spock _isn’t_ entirely Vulcan. For all his Vulcan choices, Leonard knows he was raised with at least rudimentary knowledge of Earth, and it shows in the crude English letters carved horizontally below the vertical Vulcan beams—his mother’s native tongue. These are easy enough for Leonard to understand: he knows a Vulcan name when he sees it. The first is _T’Pok_ , then _Stpok_ , followed by half-finished etches of _Spok_ , _Supok,_ and finally, _Spock_.

He means to ask what they are, but it gets filtered through the old Bones brain and somehow comes out as, “You couldn’t spell your own name?”

The hushed words and rustling halt behind him. He can feel a shadow over his shoulder—Spock, sleeping between them to politely keep the ever-busy Captain away from his sleepy doctor. Jim falls respectfully quiet for the question, likely peering over to see the runes that Leonard’s hand exposes.

Spock answers simply, “I was choosing a new name before the transition. You are aware of the typical difference in male and female naming traditions.”

He is, but that’s not the confusing part. Glancing over his shoulder with a lifted brow, Leonard asks, “So you carved it into your bed?”

A flicker of tight embarrassment passes over Spock’s face, though he’d never admit it. He says calmly, “Vulcan children have certain destructive tendencies before they are taught emotional discipline.”

Staring over both their shoulders, Jim says, “I like Spock.” Leonard does too—more so than Stpok, anyway. But it could just be because that’s what he’s used to: the name of a man he’s already fallen in love with. Jim carries on, “But I’m surprised I never brushed on T’Pok in our mindmelds. I thought I’d felt most of your childhood.”

“And you felt me, named with the true name I still was then and you know me as now. The old label was never the truth, and therefore a mindmeld would see through it.”

Jim gives a solemn nod, accepting that. Leonard’s been in Spock’s head a few times, too, but he’s never lingered on the details, always so busy reveling in the tidal wave of _Spock_. He hasn’t thought of Spock’s transition in years, but every time it’s mentioned, he thinks of that branch of medical science again—reassignment surgeries that Earth has mostly perfected but Vulcan has down to an art. But Leonard always has question about Spock’s body, even after exploring every last millimeter of the outside and much of certain insides. He was trying to avoid thinking of that tonight. He’s sure his nurses already suspect that he puts up such a big fuss about hobgoblin anatomy because he’s enamoured with it. And the more he pictures Spock’s smooth, yellow-green skin, taut chest and distinctly _alien_ cock, the harder it becomes to keep Jim’s dirty childhood-bed fantasies out of his mind.

He draws his hand away from the corner of the mattress and pulls the blankets around himself, grumbling, “If you have at it, try not to rock the bed too much.”

He’s touched behind his ear. Soft, blunt fingertips drag over the round shell of it: a tantalizing caress. Spock’s: he can feel the beginning sparks of touch-telepathy, dragged out so easily between lovers. A kiss presses into his bare shoulder; he can tell from the shape of the lips that it’s Jim. Jim murmurs, “G’night, Bones.”

Spock adds, “Good night, Leonard.”

Leonard mutters, “’Night, darlin’s,” and tries to catch some sleep.


End file.
